


eventually the birds must land.

by soldier-dean (badaltin)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gardener Dean, M/M, Mechanic Dean, mechan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:37:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4375688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badaltin/pseuds/soldier-dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is dead, Cas is gone, and Dean's okay. Really.</p><p>"He got to the garage, and began work. </p><p>After he retired from hunting and realized he needed an actual job, the most obvious choice would be to become a mechanic. </p><p>It wasn’t just that he knew enough about cars to get along. He thoroughly enjoyed working on them, whether it was to replace the front axle, or just a simple oil change. Taking a tattered hunk of metal, a poor excuse of an automobile, and fixing it up to look presentable. To make it look worthy of something more. Something no longer tattered and broken. Yes, he thought, he thoroughly enjoyed it.</p><p>He was just worried about the day when there’d be nothing left for him to fix."</p>
            </blockquote>





	eventually the birds must land.

He liked his house. It was out-of-the-way, and unassuming. It was also in need of constant repair, giving the ex-hunter something to do during his waking hours. 

There weren’t many things in the world he liked. But this house was one of them.

Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, but he did not mind. The sun shot down arrows of heat onto the back of his neck, reddening the skin. Specks of brown earth dug beneath his chewed nails. His back creaked like a door on rusty hinges, but he ignored it all. He didn’t mind any of it.

He crouched in a pillow of soft daisies, careful not to trample any of their soft yellow heads. The man tenderly patted the loamy soil around each flower, and plucked the occasional clover or weed when spotted.

He hummed to himself, drawing his tanned arm across his damp brow. “Mary,” he breathed, barely a whisper. “This’ll be for her.”

So he crept out of the flower bed, avoiding the shining sea of suns as he walked back onto the grass. Brushing his dirt-covered hands against his jeans in habit, he strode through the rickety screen door into his kitchen.

His garden sighed in his absence, bowing and dancing with the calm summer breeze.

He rummaged through a small cupboard beneath his counter, pulling out a bottle of paint and a smooth, speckled rock the size of both his hands. 

The man sat them on the kitchen table, and turned back around to his silverware drawer. He pulled from it a spindly, tiny paintbrush, the chipped remnants of golden paint clinging for dear life to its sides.

He pulled out a chair, and with the exhaustion of a person who has seen their world crash and burn, he collapsed onto the seat.

He bit the tip of the brush, his teeth making new groves in the riddled wood. Maybe, he thought unbelievingly, biting his brushes would keep him away from his nails.

He licked his thumb and index finger, and dragged them across the bristles in an imitation-caress.

He held the forsaken brush tenderly, gently in his hand so used to being instruments of murder. He dipped the tip in the white paint, and carefully wrote ‘Mary’ across the stone.

The veteran allowed the paint to dry, and took the rock outside before settling it in front of the bed of daisies. On his way inside, he walked past other flower beds with similar rock-plaques, and he completely ignored a plot of earth devoid of any flowers.

He came into the house, and sat down again, fingering the wooden handle of the paintbrush. It was tattered. The chair was tattered. His beautiful table was. His boots were. His house was. 

But he didn’t care, because he too was tattered.

.

His house was about a mile from the road. It was isolated – and he liked it that way. There were constant renovations to make, and he liked it that way too.

Shingle the roof. Paint the shutters. Rewire the lights. Completely deconstruct and reconstruct the gutters. Rebuild that one section of fence that the deer have ruined in their haste to the garden.

When he wasn’t doing repairs or working outside, he didn’t always know what to do with himself. Sometimes he’d grab a book and try to read. He’d sit in a dusty armchair smelling of mothballs in the living room, with a glass of water handy – just so he didn’t have to get up. The man would get himself comfortable: feet propped up on his hideous ottoman, pillow beneath his sore back, the whole nine yards.

He’d stare at the text, eyes moving but unseeing. He’d try, dear lord would he try, spending almost an hour getting through the first few pages. 

And then, in his frustration, he’d fling the offending object across the room, ignorant of the saltwater that dripped onto the floor from his cheeks like a leaky faucet.

The binding would rip and pages would scatter across the hardwood floor. He’d crouch down next to the heap of papers, and pick it up as if it were a fragile porcelain doll, or perhaps an injured animal.

Then, he’d fix it, making sure to leave it in better shape than it was beforehand. He’d put the newly repaired book back in its place on the shelf. The pleasant night air would come in from the open windows, helping to air out the stuffy room. The windows would reveal the dark expanse of the trees before him, a wall, a barrier between himself and the road and the town. His isolation was protection, he told himself, a record set on repeat in his head. I’m saving them from myself. Saving him from myself, the man would say.

He’d crawl into bed, pulling the tattered covers over his tattered self, and pretend to sleep. He’d try not to think about him, until he thought his brain would explode from the effort. He was trying to make it work.

.

Ironically, he was a mechanic. He didn’t drive anymore, of course – he walked everywhere. The ex-hunter didn’t mind it, didn’t care that the town was three miles away. The aching in his feet was almost a comfort, an echo of a past life.

‘Small-town America’ was a perfect descriptor for the sleepy spot on the map he worked in. Everybody knew everybody, and they were some of the friendliest people he’s ever met. They gave him a job, and when he kept his distance, they didn’t ask any questions. He liked that.

After having a week off of work, he wandered back into town towards the garage. He wasn’t exactly grateful for the vacation, but he thanked his coworkers anyway.

His place was small, an excuse he used to not invite anyone over. Obviously he didn’t need a whole lot of space, but it somehow felt less empty when there wasn’t much room that needed occupying. But that first day off of work, he wanted to tear his hair out. Or gouge his eyes from his skull. Or claw his ears off.

The loneliness taunted him, hanging heavy in the air and sending chills down his spine. It whispered to him, it tickled his spine and it engulfed him until he was gasping for air.

You wanted this, he reminded himself. This is what you get. What you deserve.

He looked down, and found that light trails of blood were dripping from his clenched fists, traveling the slopes of his scarred hands. He stared in rapturous awe for minutes, or hours. He did not mind.

The man dove headlong into repainting his entire house, working too quick for that cold to keep up with. He made sure to avoid the color blue, though. And for the first time in awhile, he had wished for a drink. 

Now, he hadn’t stopped drinking because he realized he had a problem, it was because his drinking had gotten to the point where it no longer did what he wanted. It didn’t leave him numb, or blissfully ignorant like it had in the past. And he really couldn’t afford to make a habit out of it, so he just stopped altogether. 

When he came into town the next Monday, the owner of the local flower shop ran out of her store, and stopped him.

“Dean!” she said, her smile stretched wide across her forty-year-old face. She was one of the few people he enjoyed talking to on occasion, and so he indulged himself in a real smile.

“You haven’t visited in over a week! I was startin’ to get worried!” Karen joked, her voice light and airy. 

It had been so long since he’d last spoke; he was a little surprised when he found that he was still able to. “Sorry about that. I was taking a mini vacation.”

“Well honey, you sure deserved it! And I got these sunflower seeds I was plannin’ on givin’ you the other day. There ain’t much I can do with ‘em, y’know?”

He accepted the seeds, and when she suggested he come over for dinner sometime, he nodded his head as if he actually were to go. He went on his way, and turned the packet of seeds over in his hand. 

“Sam,” he muttered. “These could be for Sam.” He didn’t even know if Sam liked sunflowers. It was too girly of a topic for them to ever have discussed. But they reminded the man of him, what with their towering height and bright petals. He inwardly smiled to himself. Sam would like them.

He got to the garage, and began work. 

After he retired from hunting and realized he needed an actual job, the most obvious choice would be to become a mechanic. 

It wasn’t just that he knew enough about cars to get along. He thoroughly enjoyed working on them, whether it was to replace the front axle, or just a simple oil change. Taking a tattered hunk of metal, a poor excuse of an automobile, and fixing it up to look presentable. To make it look worthy of something more. Something no longer tattered and broken. Yes, he thought, he thoroughly enjoyed it.

He was just worried about the day when there’d be nothing left for him to fix.

.

 

He got rid of the Impala after Cas left. He could hardly get himself to look at the damn car, let alone drive it. What had once been his pride and joy, his baby, no longer symbolized home, and all the wonderful memories it held. It just reminded him of all the people he let down, how he’d hurt them, of what happened to Sam, and how Cas--

The sunflowers were blooming nicely. He’d check on them every day after they began to sprout, along with all the other flowers he tended to. Navigating around the stone baring Sam’s name, he’d care for the gorgeous flowers. He watered them, picking bugs off from their vibrant green shoots. He couldn’t wait to see them in bloom, fully. Their dark centers angled towards the sun, yellow petals framing them beautifully. It was a gorgeous breed, surely. A gorgeous breed indeed.

He marveled at the thought that a burning ball of gas so far away could be responsible for such beauty, and be their namesake; he was positive that a few years ago, he couldn’t have cared less.

Admiring his handiwork, he noticed the wilting remains of one of Jo’s flowers. He cradled the snapdragon in his gentle hands, almost as if he were afraid of his own strength, of his ability to crumble the fragile thing without a second thought.

For some reason, this upset him greatly. He slammed open his screen door, and walked into the darkened kitchen. He sat the dead flower down in the middle of the table. It was almost comical, how it looked like a perverted centerpiece. He wondered if Cas would’ve--

He looked about the room, realizing for the second time since he’s lived there that what he thought was his sanctuary was actually his prison.

The kitchen reflected his innermost thoughts, with its water stains and lightless walls and its fresh layer of paint, desperately trying to cover up the real damage beneath. He was suffocating again, and for once, he allowed himself one prayer to his angel. Former angel, as Cas was always keen on correcting him.

So it was safe. The prayer. It was safe, because Cas couldn’t hear him anyway.

He looked back down at the wooden grain of the rickety table, and glared at the tattered remains of the snapdragon. 

He hated how he was responsible for the death of this stupid, insignificant flower. He hated how it had gone and died on him. He hated himself. He hated Cas. He hated Sam. And Jo. And Karen. His poison had seeped into the earth.

No, no. He picked it up, and with a little more effort than strictly necessary, he dropped the flower in the trash bin. He idled in the doorway for minutes, hours. Realizing himself, he stumbled into the bathroom, quickly stripped, and stepped into the shower. He was dirty. A scar cut through his soul - something that couldn’t be scrubbed away no matter how hard he tried. Couldn’t be scrubbed clean.

.

Every morning that he went to work, he put on his most believable smile. He used to pride himself on his poker face, on his ability to lie through his teeth. But now, his grip was slipping. The walls he so carefully constructed, the mask he carved from his own flesh and blood, was cracking. And he was seeing through the cracks.

It wasn’t him that looked back from the other side of the mirror. It was the face of a stranger, one with identical scruff and the same dead eyes. The next thing he knew, his fist connected with the mirror, and the sounds of thousands of worlds shattering filled his conscious. Or maybe it was just his world shattering. But hadn’t it already shattered, he thought? It was tattered.

Looking down, his knuckles were bleeding profusely, but he didn’t feel pain. Not the slightly pleasant sting he’d get after punching the lights outa some evil bastard. That was a lifetime ago. 

The broken shards of glass formed a halo on the ground around his feet. A thousand more things he was responsible for.

He just wanted out. And after saving countless people, and the entire effin’ planet, this was his reward.

.

His freckled skin formed constellations and his eyes were emeralds. His breath was mustard gas and his tears were oceans of saltwater. He was a machine built to look like a man. And he couldn’t keep doing this anymore.

But he did. With the voice of his father in his head, the unending mantra, he trudged on, wandering through each day like a blind man in a maze.

After the end of all things, he and Castiel had nothing to do. He was done with hunting, and Castiel was done with Heaven, being a human and all. But he didn’t know how to be comforting, how to be brotherly, how to be human. He was grieving for the loss of his brother, and for the end of his own life. For it had seemed like it at the time.

He was like a man that’d come back from serving, a man who’d been in battle and seen too much. He can’t immediately adjust from 360 degree combat to twiddling his thumbs while waiting for his toast to pop out of the toaster. And he had just lost his closest brother-in-arms.

Cas tried. He really did. And that’s probably what made him tell the former angel to leave. Castiel was hurting, and he couldn’t do anything about it, nor could he offer the slightest bit of comfort. He didn’t deserve him. He didn’t deserve anybody.

And so, with an even heavier heart, he told all this to Castiel. That he was poison. That if Cas didn’t want to get hurt, and wanted to live a normal life, that he should get as far away from him as possible.

Castiel lived and breathed for his former hunter. And if he told Cas to scram, then Cas would comply and leave without a trace.

The cracks were getting wider, and more noticeable. His fellows at the garage started sending him anxious looks when they thought he wasn’t looking. Karen constantly asked if there was anything she could do, and he always refused politely. 

There was nothing to be done about it, he thought. So he carried on, like the soldier he was.

.

He sat in a lawn chair in his garden. The flowers were fluttering lazily with the hot wind. Fat bees flew from bud to bud, today preferring the carnations over the bellflowers. And standing guard beyond the fence were the tall woods, their branches stretching out over the yard, bathing it in temporary shade. The ancient wind chimes tinkled in the breeze, accompanying the rustling of the leaves overhead. It was beautiful. He closed his eyes, and just was, for a brief, glorious moment.

Cas would like this, he thought. Cas would watch the bees, and admire the flowers with uncanny attentiveness, and explain the complicated life of said flowers from germination to pollination to death. 

Castiel would wonder about the obviously empty patch of earth. And he would tell Cas that it was for him- when he decided to come back to him. And Cas would nod and smile, and spend an impressively long amount of time deciding which flowers were worthy enough of the sacred plot of garden beneath the bathroom window.

The chimes tinkled, the wind blew, the leaves rustled, and he sighed, breathing with the land, in, out, in, out.

He almost didn’t recognize the sound of someone knocking on his door. His eyes shot open, and he stood up so quickly his mind went fuzzy and the ground seemed to roll beneath his feet. He was so startled, that he didn’t even think to grab a gun before wrenching open the front door.

And all the sudden, he was drowning, drowning in a sea of dazzling sapphire light.

“Dean.”

.

“Cas,” he breathed, and it rolled off his tongue, his mouth curving around the word. That single syllable somehow seemed to underscore everything he’d felt since Cas had left.

And suddenly he was being embraced, and holy hell he didn’t realize how much he’d been craving human contact until now.

He buried his head into his angel’s shoulder, clutching desperately to the windbreaker on his back. Silent sobs racked his body as he leaned against the wild-haired man for support. He didn’t care about burying his emotions anymore. It didn’t matter.

“Dean,” Cas spoke this benediction again, the tension loosening from his body. “I- I am sorry. I know we agreed to separate, but I just…” Castiel’s voice trailed away, the unspoken understood all too well

“I know.” His voice cracked, but Cas either didn’t notice or didn’t care. 

It took all the strength left in him to pull away, and he cupped Castiel’s face in his hands. He connected their mouths in a chaste kiss, utterly sweet and innocent.

He pulled away a second time, and reached for Cas’s hand. An unspoken agreement passed between the two, and he led the other upstairs to his bedroom. 

And Castiel never left.


End file.
